


Tongue and Cheek

by Lizburns



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Humor, Smut, They're going to kill each other, trickery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizburns/pseuds/Lizburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw's starting to think the actual pain in her ass might not be the bullet lodged squarely in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Shaw's mad when she hits the last level of stairs into the station. Actually, mad wouldn't even begin to scratch the surface, but who cares, she's angry.

Her boots make stomping echos against the tiled walls as she briskly walks with a hitch in her step towards the back of the subway car. She is vaguely aware, but unconcerned with the set of eyes that follow her bee lined path towards the medicine cabinet. As Shaw flings open it's doors, too forcibly, the supplies go flying and it's then senses that smug grin.

_Don't you have somewhere else to be?_

“Oh, for fucks sake!” Shaw mumbles under her breath instead of groaning as she bends over to collect the fallen items. The aching tug on her backside protests her movements and Shaw is once again reminded of that fucking bullet lodged square in her ass cheek. Too busy opening packets of gauze, she forgets who her back is turned to and that she's just given Root ammunition.

“Unexpected visit from Aunt Flo?” Root teases from her seat safe behind the computer screen.

_Blood + pants = Very fucking clever._

“I got shot in the ass Root, what's it look like?” Shaw says flatly without taking her eyes away from the set up. Then she immediately rests her knuckles against the table and waits for that microsecond it takes for Root to respond in her irritating way.

“ _Looks good to me_ ,” Root says in that sultry tone she's infamous for, the one that Shaw can't fucking stand, but she expected this. It takes so much not to grant Root with her usual murderous scowl, because Shaw knows this would only encourage.

_Just ignore her._

Shaw's twisting her neck and back around in ways they shouldn't be twisted, trying to assess the damage when she hears that distinct creak from Harold's old chair. She's holding back a sigh of frustration, not because she can't fucking see the wound clearly, but because she feels the balance shifting in the cable car. There's heels clicking, making their approach at a slow and steady pace, and it reminds Shaw of a lioness stalking her prey. Not that Root can ever sneak up on her... well, not this time.

The clacking of her heels against the hard floor are snapping in hypnotic rhythm, and the sound is similar to the noise Shaw's pistol, which is lying readily on the table, would make if she were to rack the slide and load a round into the chamber.

Until she's sure Root's standing right behind her, probably with her arms folded and head cocked to one side. Probably with that curious grin, and if Shaw looks at it, she's probably going punch it right off Root's face.

“Shame,” Root sighs with feigned disappointment. “I really liked those on you.”

 _I hate these fucking pants_.

“Need a hand?” Root offers.

_Like I need another hole in my ass._

“No,” Shaw punctuates coldly, unscrewing the top of the alcohol bottle and flicking the lid off to where she thinks Root might be. The plastic just clatters against the floor.

“Last time I checked, you didn't study contortion-ism in med school,” Root comments and Shaw is eyeing her gun again.

_Yes, but would you like to know what I did study in the Marines?_

Shaw rolls her eyes instead and says, “Your point?” She's turning around, and it's the equivalent to fanning flames, but Shaw wants to see how full of shit she is and look Root dead in the...

_Holy fuck..._

Root shouldn't be wearing that, not here, not in front of Shaw. In a snug blue dress that clings in all the right places that Shaw never needed to know about. The garment rested so high above Root's knees, if Shaw's old catholic school teacher saw the ensemble, the wooden paddle would come around swiftly. As if that small white sweater did little to cover Root's form as well. Shaw's eyes wander south to long and slender legs perched atop sharp heels so high, it's like Root's trying to be closer to Heaven... or just tower over Shaw a little more than she already does.

_God damn those legs..._

And then Shaw thinks about taking Root over her knee and...

_Stop it!_

Shaw mentally shakes her head like an etch-a-sketch, erasing whatever perverted image previously drawn.

“I was a substitute teacher today, in case you were wondering,” Root says like she knows Shaw's been thinking, and what immediately comes to mind is Sex Ed.

She runs a hand through her long brunette curls and situates twirling the ends around her finger. “As much as it amuses me to watch you chase your tail, I don't think you'd be a useful member of the team with an infected wound and a sprained neck.” Root says as sincerely as she can muster, still playing with her strands, and all Shaw wants to do rip them right out of Root's fucking head.

Root's right, all the time, and it's annoying. Still, Shaw doesn't acknowledge.

“Let me see.” Root makes these tempting but unconvincing offers and it only adds a brick to the wall that Shaw keeps repairing every time this woman is around. But Root presses on. “No funny business, I promise,” and that's definitely a lie if Shaw's ever heard one.

“I find that hard to believe,” Shaw quips with a raised brow, and Root just smiles wickedly like she always does.

“Scout's honor,” she vows with the appropriate hand gesture that is less than reassuring. It's a little glimmer in Root's eyes, a little lie that Shaw see's and wants to ignore. Accidentally leaning backwards into the table, Shaw's starting to think the actual pain in her ass might be the bullet wedged in the soft tissue and not this hot maniac standing in front of her. She's already undoing the top button and pulling the zipper down on her pants, and cursing herself in the process.

“Kinda hard to picture you as a girl scout,” Shaw says candidly as she turns her back to Root again, and it's starting to feel like a mistake.

“Gold star in first aid.” So accomplished Root sounds with the story of her own concoction as she rummages through whatever. It's her own weak attempt to instill a non-existent faith in Shaw's credit level deep red in the negative.

_Gold star in bullshit._

“Merit badge,” Shaw corrects, but it's nearly too late, when she hears the snapping of latex gloves on pompous hands.

“Whatever,” and Shaw can feel Root's exaggerated eye roll like displacement of air. “Bend over and drop trough,” Root demands with an overt playfulness that's just unsettled every bit of distrust Shaw has. But Shaw's distracted or just doesn't care, so she begrudgingly complies.

Shaw tugs at her own pants and shimmies them down a ways that might constitute an inch and Root just tisks, tisks, fucking tisks. Like the sound Shaw's favorite knife makes when she's sharpening it...

“You're gonna have to give me more than that, sweetie.”

...the same one she wants to press against Root's throat right now for calling her sweetie.

“C'mon Shaw, it's just us ladies.”

_No... I'm a sociopath ex government operative and you're a psycho with a fairy god mother talking in her head. We are not ladies._

Before Shaw can do anything, Root's hands are grasping the waist of her pants and pulling them down forcefully. Shaw's body becomes rigid as the air immediately leaves her lungs, and all she can think about is Root bending her over the table and...

_No, no, NO!_

There's a cringe that finds it's way to Shaw's face. Not from pain, she doesn't really feel pain. It's a mixture of humiliation coupled with some desire that Shaw is desperately trying to simmer instead of boil. Root's probably smiling from ear to fucking ear right now, like she's won another battle. By default though, because Shaw really just wants this bullet out of her ass... and that's it.

“Oh my!” She hears Root gasp. Shaw whips her head around with alarm only to catch another smirk claiming Root's arrogant face.

“It's nicer than I thought,” Root says in a tone dripping with delight. It's then that Shaw scowls.

“Root...” She growls as a warning, but Root's already waving her off, suddenly more interested in wound care than flirting.

“Hold still.” Root pulls up a swiveled stool and sits, and Shaw thinks it's over, but then an arm is reaching around her waist, brushing too much against sensitive skin for the gauze that's lying on the table in front of Shaw. It's planned and gratuitous, and it makes Shaw's grip on the edges tighten until her knuckles turn white.

“So... care to share,” Root breaks the silence again. It feels like she's absentmindedly swabbing alcohol over her injury and Shaw wishes she would just get on with it.

“With you? No,” Shaw shot before she felt the intentional sting of a harder swipe.

“Just thought you might enjoy some small talk,” Root chirped and then added, “To lighten the mood while you're in this _compromising_ position.”

 _You're about to be in a compromising position if you don't hurry the fuck up_.

“I don't do small talk.”

“Cmon Sameen,” Root whined. “I've been cooped up here all day,” she says like Shaw's going to feel sorry for her, but the subtext insinuates restlessness and certain pent up frustrations...

_I don't care._

“So leave,” Shaw retorts. Root's not bound by a ball and chain, she can do whatever she wants. Then again, Shaw realizes the same could be said for herself and maybe she should take her own advice.

“Can't,” Root sighs. “Harold wants these codes ran asap. Say's it's significant to the new number. Is it ever really?”

_Finch never said anything about a..._

“New number?” Shaw perks a little, well, in her own way. Something else to look forward to when she's done being stitched up and sexually harassed.

Root hums in the affirmative. “While you were out doing...” she pauses for an instant, “What was it you said?”

“I didn't,” Shaw says frankly.

“Shaw, please.” Root pulls out this voice that's too hot and breathier than it should be, and Shaw closes her eyes and imagines those same words being spoken in a different context. Maybe Root's writhing underneath Shaw's teasing hands, begging for Shaw to...

_Damn it!_

“Give me something.” Root says, and that's not helping either. “I've been here all by my lonesome with no one to talk to.” Pouting is just unattractive, but when Root's doing it, it makes something somewhere inappropriate tingle involuntarily, and Shaw, once again, has to force herself to snap the hell out of it.

_Talk to your girlfriend then._

“That's what the Machine is for,” Shaw points out.

“You're no fun,” Root remarks under her breath. Her hands finally feeling like they were doing something useful now that she had stopped talking, and Shaw was somewhat relieved.

And all of a sudden bored.

Shaw reads the label on the tube of antibiotic ointment. She practices knots with the rubber tourniquet. She plays a thrilling game of I spy and drums her fingers to the beat of this stupid song she overhead someone humming earlier, and now it was stuck in her fucking head.

Shaw looks at her watch and slews a long string of swears in her head when she realizes only three minutes have gone by.

Now she's glancing into the reflection of the car window, and there Root is. Furrowed brow fixed to Shaw's wound, paying close attention to the tentative movements of her hands. So concentrated she was unknowingly biting her bottom lip, and for some odd reason, most likely due to blood loss or gun smoke inhalation, Shaw thinks it's cute.

_Fine._

“Fusco shot me,” Shaw finally said, annoyed that she even admitted something that could later come back to bite her. She could see the way Root perked in the window. Eyes suddenly beaming and the edges of her mouth turning to a grin.

“What'd you do? Eat his last donut?” Root quips with an amused chuckle, and Shaw immediately regrets this decision.

“If you shut up for one second, I'll tell you,” Shaw barks, turning her head slightly to give Root a sideways glance.

“You have my undivided attention always,” Root coos with big puppy eyes, and Shaw can't help but make a sound that might have over exaggerated her disgust.

_Unfortunately._

“Robbery at the National Savings and Loans in Manhattan,” Shaw begins so matter of factly. “Number worked there as a teller-”

“Let me guess,” Root cut in, “Inside job.”

“Can I tell the damn story?” Shaw snaps. Root's answer was that of silence, and Shaw continued.

“Anyways...” she said with irritation, “He gives the thieves everything they need to pull off the job; blue prints, security codes, shift change times, the works. They had it all set up. Get in, get out. No muss, no fuss. It would have been perfect.” Shaw thinks back to her old cover identity. Cosmetic counter girl by day, thief by night. It actually wasn't a bad gig, now that she remembers. The stealing part, not the make up slinging.

“Little did they know you and officer friendly fire were waiting,” Root chimes in again with a laugh, and Shaw just ignores her.

“The two guys doing crowd control were easy. They threw their guns away real quick. One of them wet all over himself.” Shaw smiles at her own recollection, but it's soon wiped from her face.

“You do have that _effect_ on people,” Root adds, and Shaw just looks up at the ceiling, shakes her head and bites the inside of her cheek.

_You just can't control yourself, can you?_

“The perps in the vault put up a fight though, but they were lousy shots. Not as lousy as Fusco... dumb ass. What did he think would happen? Firing a bullet at three and a half foot thick, reinforced steel door... I swear,” Shaw trails off.

“I'm sure he said he was sorry,” Root smirked with a patronizing edge at the corners of her mouth.

“If you call _'Walk it off sweet cheeks'_ an apology...” Shaw replies, thinking of how she should have decked Fusco for that.

“What about the number?” Root asks, and Shaw's smiling with the deviation.

“Laid him out.” She says with small triumph.

“I don't know why you're so grumpy, Shaw. Sounds like a job well done to me. Besides...” Root paused to place the removed projectile on the table in front of Shaw. “It was only a tiny ricochet fragment anyway.” Root's tone insinuated something else to be desired. Shaw looked at the once .45 caliber turned .22 and scoffed to herself. Such a little thing to be the cause of such a great pain, among other things.

“Good. Then it shouldn't take you much longer.”

“Perfection takes time. You don't want a nasty scar blemishing this flawless backside of yours,” Root says like Shaw should be so flattered. It's only reminding her of this situation with the charming psycho, and how much she'd like to be out of it. Before she does something stupid, and right now, she's not entirely sure what that would constitute.

There's more contact now, more hands and what feels like stitches going on. Root must be leaning in close because Shaw can feel her breath scrutinizing as much as Root's eyes are. Without skipping a beat, Root's at it again.

“Are you blushing Shaw? Because your cheeks are turning bright red.” And it's probably true to some extent, only because Shaw's been fuming this entire time. Now her head feels like a hot tea kettle, and she wouldn't be surprised if stacks of steam came puffing from her ears.

“Keep it up Root. I haven't met my shot quota yet.” Shaw sends a warning with little promise, but it feels good just to say it. No, she wouldn't ever shoot Root, well... unless she had good reason to. Shaw is always on the look out for an excuse.

“Don't tease,” Root sends back. If only she knew the world of hurt Shaw could put her in.

_Just stitch me up for the love of fuck!_

“Almost...” Root trails in the final tug of the string. “And done!” She says with accomplishment and immediately Shaw's shoving some bandage into Root's face so she can really be finished. Still, Root is taking her time. Shaw hears gloves torn being torn away and the painfully slow stretching of tape before it rips. She feels the slow movement of bare fingers applying it shortly thereafter.

Shaw's expecting one more out of Root; she feels the next one-liner surfacing and readies herself. Something like, _Want a kiss to make it feel better?_ Whatever weird shit Root comes up with in her head.

Standing up straight now, Shaw's about to pull up her pants and escape without a thank you, but Root's still close in her vicinity and unmoving. Shaw's waiting in anticipation for that last crack, so she can whirl around and maybe choke the smirk right off Root's face. Nothing would make her happier.

_Oh..._

Shaw doesn't expect Root's hands to do the talking. They find their way to bare hips and begin a painfully slow glide, smoothing against the skin. Shaw's frozen and-

_Fuck._

It feels like Root's hands are on fire, fingertips searing a path to the place that's been burning since she saw Root in that damn dress. There's a warm body pressed to her back and a hot breath upon her neck, and Shaw lets out a sigh that does little to nothing to extinguish these thoughts she's been repressing.

“Shaw,” Root breathes. The tip of her nose brushes a line down Shaw's ear while the tips of fingers draw lazy circles everywhere but the place Shaw wants and doesn't want them to be. They've been doing this dance for so long, Shaw forgets what might happen when the music finally stops.

“Do me a favor...” Root says in a low and sultry voice that seems to short circuit all the wires in Shaw's head, sending the wicked current directly between her legs. Those evil lips purposely brush against skin that's dying for more contact.

_Oh fuck.._

One of Root's hands break away from the pack and begin a slow journey to the other side, towards Shaw's unharmed cheek, dragging nails in it's path. Shaw's aware of the sting they inspire and unaware of how hard she's clenching her own fists. Later there would be nail marks in more places than one.

“Watch your ass next time,” Root cautions and the comment only makes Shaw huff out a small laugh that might sound like nervousness.

“Or what? You'll watch it for me?” Shaw shoot's back in a way Root's too familiar with, and Root just responds in kind. Shaw lets out a hiss when teeth bite down on her ear hard enough to draw blood, when a hand squeezes firmly the flesh of her backside with bruising force. Shaw's not sure if Root just growled in her ear or hummed, but the vibrations ripple shock waves through out her entire body

“Something like that...” Root mumbles into the crook of Shaw's neck as she skims fingertips along the edges of the fabric that's barely keeping Shaw modest.

“Root...” Shaw's aware of the desperation in her own voice but doesn't care. She's about to grab Root's damn hand and put it to good use, or bring around her already closed fist for a different kind of connection. Either way, end this nonsense that they always do once and for all.

But before Shaw can do anything, Root's pulls away. Shaw's about to let out a sigh of relief or frustration. She's about to grab her gun and pistol whip this woman.

There's a chill of whooshing air and a loud crack that soon follows. Shaw feels the burning sting on her good cheek and the warmth of a palm that lingers for a moment. The whites of her teeth are showing to grit in anger as Root leans in again and speaks as if she can hardly contain her giddiness.

“Thanks for letting me play doctor,” Root smirks and Shaw's seething with nothing short of anger. She quickly goes for the pistol and turns. Root doesn't even try to resist when seeing red Shaw wraps her hands around her neck and aims the barrel at her face. She's smiling at the wrong end of a gun while Shaw's searching for some excuse to use it, when their squabble is ended abruptly.

“Are we interrupting something ladies?” Shaw hears Reese say and turns to find him standing along side a worried and perplexed looking Finch. Even Bear tilts his head with curiosity. She's still got Root by the neck at gunpoint when she feels the woman try to clear her throat. Shaw half expects Root to be pleading for oxygen, but when she shifts her glance back, she doesn't find panic in Root's eyes. That fucking smile is still plastered on her face and her eyes are gazing downward with amusement.

_Oh God damn it!_

It's then that Shaw realizes she's in another comprising situation apart from holding the Machine's beloved pet by the throat, that her pants are down while she's doing so.

Shaw quickly releases Root with a shove and moves to adjust her clothes respectively. Root doesn't even rub at her surely sore neck. She just lets out a slight chuckle and walks away from Shaw's look of contempt.

“Well, it's been fun, but my skills are needed elsewhere,” Root turns to give Shaw one last spirited wink before leaving. Her heels are a drum roll to her own exit, and Reese and Finch both watch her stride away.

“Dare I ask Ms. Shaw?” Harold says with a raised brow.

“About what?” Shaw feigns, turning her attention to the mess of medical supplies scattered over the table instead of towards the questionable looks directed.

“I won't delve into business that doesn't concern me, but it's of great importance that you and Ms. Groves settle whatever vendetta you have together,” Harold says with a grave tone and Shaw finds more concern in her weapon than in his words.

_I'll settle it, just you wait._

“I'm quite serious Ms. Shaw,” he adds and Shaw just deadpans.

“Don't be. It wasn't even chambered,” she says bluntly, then goes back to checking the magazine before sliding it in. Harold is about to say something else to that effect but Shaw just cocks the slide back of her pistol menacingly and he instantly decides otherwise. Turning to limp away with Bear in tow, Reese just offers her a look that relays his smallest sympathy before he too follows.

Shaw's phone buzzes from her pant's pocket and she doesn't need to see the ID to know who it is. The small screen flashes the message and Shaw just grins to herself.

_//Boys ruin all the fun.//_

_“I'm going to ruin you,_ ” Shaw types back before shoving the phone back in her pocket. It goes off again and Shaw can't help but to look. The glowing screen just shows the brief message and Shaw may or may not have felt something inside squirm with delight or dread.

_//I can't wait.//_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going through a bit of block while trying to write this, hence, taking my sweet time. Hope you all enjoy the mixture from Root's perspective this turn around. "Taste of your own medicine" is the only saying that does justice. And yes, there will be a third and final chapter to resolve this whole mess between Root and Shaw.

“Think you could have handled that better?” Root asks to the back of Shaw's head as they enter the hotel room.

At this point, she doesn't really care that her own question is reminiscent of something Harold might say, even more so if she had added a _Miss Shaw_ to the end. Root's been awake too long to actually be bothered by Shaw's brash handle of things when tempers flare. Either that or she can't possibly be upset when Shaw looks the way she does. Right now Root's thankful for the extra time allotted this morning to do a little shopping.

“Yeah, if I had used a gun,” Shaw replies almost so naturally. Of course, anything involving Shaw and a pistol is always better. Though, what should have been a smooth operation had nearly gotten too slippery for someone as slick as Shaw.

She flicks the lights on and Root can almost hear a groan escaping Shaw's ever pursed mouth when she sees only the one bed instead of two. The doubles were all booked up, or so Root would fabricate upon further complaint. But they won't be staying long, the train they need to catch back to the city leaves in four hours. Shaw knows this and makes no remark about the room situation. She just tosses the key card somewhere near the desk and the same haphazard approach is taken with the black stilettos she's wearing as well. Kicking them off with an abandoned sense of urgency as if they were burning hot, the shoes hit the wall across the room with a loud thud, and Root just rolls her eyes.

_$1500 shoes Shaw...but you don't care do you?_

“Doesn't matter anyway. Guy's a perp,” Shaw says nonchalantly as she always does regarding every number they come across. In this case she was right, but her initial judgment had very little to go upon. Everyone's a perpetrator to this woman, even Root some of the time. She could say a thing or two in this moment about faith, redemption, or the benefit of the doubt and how any of these might be applicable to their current partnership, but Shaw would just fling the comment away just like she had done with the Jimmy Choos.

“Why? Because he extorts people for a living?” Root asks with her usual playfulness, placing her satchel on the bed and turning to the always indifferent woman that pays her no mind. “Or because he put his hand up your dress?”

Root smiles to the length of Shaw's dark flowing hair that's covering a probable frown. There's something to be lauded when it's not so conservatively restricted and pulled back. To Shaw though, it's only getting in the way whiles she's bending over and trying to find something in her bag. It seems that Shaw didn't pack as lightly as Root. There's a small arsenal stowed away in her suitcase, but that's not what widens Root's attention. The ends of Shaw's little black dress are riding up ever so slightly with her hunched movements. Root's tired eyes are practically whining for closure, but she'll never miss an opportunity to perhaps appreciate the view a little more.

“ _Tried_ ,” Shaw corrects immediately. She must have sensed Root's stare like fine radar and begun to tug the edges of her dress down. “And no. I broke his arm for stealing food off my plate,” she finishes, almost making it obvious which action would stamp your death certificate quicker.

Root laughs lightly, at the statement and from a not so distant memory. She had once tried to take a single french fry from an agitated and hungry Shaw only to have her wrist caught mid flight and nearly twisted off. Thing is, Root wasn't even hungry at the time.

“Your territorial manners at the dinner table are so endearing,” Root teases, flipping her laptop open on the bed. “Although, I don't blame the man for wanting to try a little of _your_ thigh,” she adds, and Shaw knows she's not referring to the chicken she ordered for dinner. They chime in unison; the exasperated sigh from Shaw and the power up of Root's laptop. A signal that both are about to begin the first of many lengthy processes.

“You're a no show for weeks,” Shaw starts without returning a glance. Root brings her attention to Shaw's hands as they reach between her legs. There's the sound of pulling tape from skin it must seem painful against the sensitive areas of her thigh, but Shaw of course, acts as if it's nothing. She brings to view the small pocket pistol once adhered. “And suddenly you reappear asking for my help,” Shaw says with annoyance underlining her tone, placing the weapon on the desk.

 _You missed me, admit it_.

“For reasons so vague, they're transparent.” Root's tilts her head with even more curiosity when Shaw reaches in again and pulls away the switchblade also duct taped to the other thigh.

_Is that all?_

It's not. Shaw's hand disappears yet again, this time into her cleavage, and now she's pulling out a thin metal cord inch by inch and talking normally, even though her motions resemble a clown's never ending handkerchief.

“You automatically assume I'll just drop everything...”

_A piano wire? Really?_

“And go along with another one of you're stupid escapades.”

_I'm sure that rifle you were polishing for the fourth time today was very important Shaw. And I thought you enjoyed our little misadventures._

“Then you toss me this dress,” Shaw gestures to the same tight and gratuitous black one she's wearing right now, “that's about as concealing as a paper towel...”

_But it's Armani..._

“Expecting me to believe your overused line,” Shaw makes little quotations with her fingers and does a half-assed attempt of what she thinks Root's voice sounds like. “ _It's what the MACHINE wants._ ”

_I picked it out especially for you._

“She has very...” Root begins, taking the slow walk up of Shaw's body with her eyes, “ _specific_ tastes.”

Shaw's leaning on one leg, resting her pouting hands on her hips when Root takes a step closer, as if gleefully daring Shaw to counter her abundant white lies. The machine only provided Root with body measurements, however, the choice of ensemble was entirely up to her. It was one of Root's happiest decisions so far today.

“Besides,” she says into Shaw's most coveted personal space, “I thought a change in your usual attire would make it easier for you to act like a sophisticated woman.” Apparently their definition of sophisticated muddled somewhere in blurred gray area.

_Plus I thought you'd look incredibly sexy in it._

“Sorry to get your hopes up,” Shaw scoffs a reply in the most non-apologetic way possible, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. Truth was, Shaw did exactly what Root thought she was going to do. Well, to some extent. There was a high probability that Shaw would break character and thus break something or someone. She figured Shaw would have shot the man for his offense, Root knows she wanted to herself, sitting in the car just outside of the restaurant witnessing these events unfold. That pathetic excuse for a human had a lot of gall touching something that didn't belong to him and Root nearly abandoned her post.

Shaw can take care of herself though. Proven time and time again. This woman is as endless as her weapons cache when it comes to surprises. With all the reinforcements Shaw's hidden away on her person, it was unexpected that she chose to settle it hand to hand. Root's thinking that maybe Harold finally got through to her on the 'No Grievous Bodily Harm' policy when she notices something else a bit off. It's funny, Root's standing closer than Shaw ever wants her to be. A position Shaw could easily remove herself from or shove her way out of, and Root's wondering why she hasn't done so yet.

“Don't worry, you can always make it up to me later,” Root nearly whispers, pressing a smoothing finger lightly over the skin of Shaw's forearm, and at the same time pressing her luck. She can feel the muscles underneath tense ever so with hidden rage, but Shaw remains firm in standing her ground.

“Do you have something for me in there?” Root smiles, gesturing with her eyes a little lower to a place Shaw never wants her to look and that makes scowl number eight for the evening. Root rates it a 9.7 for the clever addition of a scoffing eye roll. With a smirk that never fails to leave her face, with a playful palm extended in waiting like a child expecting candy, Root watches as Shaw delves into her breasts yet again. Root's wondering how Shaw even finds the room when a cell phone is procured and slapped into her open hand.

“Thank you Shaw,” Root sing songs and Shaw mumbles something that sounds like whatever or welcome. Root doesn't quite catch it. The phone feels delightfully warm in her palm and she's too busy imagining transference of bodily heat in a different sort of way.

Root had a chance once. In their subway station home base, pressed against Shaw's back after stitching her up. Thinking the moment had finally arrived where Shaw wouldn't resist these invisible magnetic forces that constantly draw them together... but some fields that day were not aligned in her favor though. Some cosmic force of fate in the universe must really despise Root. She was _this_ close to getting what she wanted, until the implant began to buzz, buzz, buzz in her ear and inform Root of impending company. She didn't know who to curse: the Machine or the boys who decided to skip the ice cream cart after their usual romantic walk in the park. Either way, Root played it off in the manner she knows best, and Shaw definitely hates her more than ever now.

Much to Root's disappointment, Shaw does remove herself from this intimate space, back to rummaging within her bag, most likely for a change of clothes. Shaw probably can't wait to get out of that dress, and then maybe toss it in the trash along with some lighter fluid and a lit match.

_What a shame._

Root strides away as if she isn't bothered, shrugging off passive rejection with ease along with her leather jacket. She drapes over the chair and considers other tactics, and maybe a nap.

“Next time, _you_ play slut dress up,” Shaw says with a crass gracefulness, breaking the silence before Root can. She'd be enamored by anything Shaw says to her these days.

That was the original plan when the Machine first set up this mission, that Root go alone undercover. The number was deemed a non threat and it would be a simple solo case closed, but where was the fun in that? Root could think of no one better than Shaw to accompany her on this one. Maybe she could take the time alone to explain that whole situation a couple of weeks ago. Or she could just use this opportunity to do what she does best and give Shaw more reasons to murder her. Root's not sure right now which end of the scale is tipping more.

It's not like she was taking Shaw away from anything important. As a matter of fact, the week so far for the rest of Team Machine had been all but eventful. If only Shaw could have seen how her own eyes lit up when Root strolled in and started talking shop.

“I suppose I could,” Root pretends to ponder, “But why bother when you're already so good at it?” Root mocks and delivers a tired wink. She's searching for some sort of reaction from Shaw, a scowl, a look of disgust or offense, but an expression of another kind flashes over Shaw's face.

_Did you just smile?_

Or maybe the lack of sleep is starting to catch up with her.

“Sure,” Shaw laughs and Root can still hardly believe it. It's the faintest kind, so short Root wasn't sure if it existed, but it was nonetheless, a laugh. Shaw continues, “Pretend to listen... smile at every overt come on.... disregard less than subtle glances at my tits.”

_Sounds vaguely familiar..._

“Yeah, I have the formula for love down pat,” Shaw sarcastically finishes.

She's never this talkative. Emphasis on the word never. Underlined, circled, highlighted, in bold print, and severely understated.

“Are you feeling alright Shaw? You weren't roofied were you?” Root asks with a raised brow. Shaw's gathering some clothes in her hands and doesn't really pay mind.

“Yes and no,” she replies simply, walking towards the bathroom and Root takes in the last few moments of Shaw wearing that dress before it's never seen again. She stops just short of the door, looking to the knob instead of Root with inquiry. “Why?”

“You're unusually chatty this evening. I was beginning to think that you've warmed up to me.” Root says with a suspicious smile. She brings one knee to rest on the edge of the bed all the while looking to Shaw standing in the center of the threshold.

“I had a whiskey and a steak, and I got to hit somebody. Despite you making me wear this stupid dress, it wasn't a terrible night,” she responds, about to turn away for good.

“Would you like to know what could make it even less terrible?” Root says coyly, glancing briefly at the bed between her and Shaw. An extended invitation with little promise to be returned, but Root will always throw it out there anyway. Shaw's knows exactly what she's getting at, eyes darting towards the mattress for only an instant before they narrow. She's not stupid, although very stubborn to an extent that might eventually wipe the hopeful smirk away from Root's face one of these days.

“Hitting you,” Shaw says plainly before the door shuts behind her and the lock is turned intently.

Root just laughs to herself. Perhaps Shaw might, if she told her the truth. That the machine had not actually requested her assistance. That Harold wasn't in the middle of debugging the cloning software they use to blue-jack cell phones. That there was absolutely no need for Shaw to dress up and schmooze with the number to physically steal the information from his mobile. Maybe that would push Shaw over the edge that Root enjoys tip toeing so much.

Settling herself on the bed, she hears the shower going in the bathroom. Root props the computer open in her lap and hard lines into the number's cell phone. She's trying not to think of Shaw stripping the clothes off her body and settling under the preferred scalding hot water, but her efforts are short lived. Apparently their number enjoyed other projects aside from his illegal racket. Flipping through the photographs he had taken this evening, mostly of Shaw... under the table. Utterly tasteless these pictures would be... if Shaw weren't the subject and Root the viewer of course.

She's already seen Shaw, some of the parts hidden from the rest of the world, and likewise Root's sure. Quick identity changes under pressure of detection make you less modest. Root's always nonchalantly stolen glances in the makeshift dressing rooms, watching Shaw like she wants to be caught and always wondering if the other woman's not doing the same thing.

Root sends off the valuable information to Harold in New York. He can handle the rest on his end and the sleazy number with be in police handcuffs by morning. Another job well done, or completed rather.Root's about to disconnect the phone and destroy it, but she quickly pauses like a light bulb has just flashed above her ever wondering head. Maybe she'll save these pictures of Shaw, for later on because... you never know when they might come in _handy._

She's flips through them with a lewd fondness in her heavy eyes. Blinking and clicking the right arrow to the next photograph, her lids stay closed a little longer each turn, until they're fighting to stay open. Root drifts off to a much desired sleep with the computer still on and unfolded in her lap, with images of Shaw dancing through her head.

 

X

 

Root's still asleep and dreaming when she feels the bed shifting underneath her. It's that kind of twilight slumber where you're partially conscious but unable to wake. Vaguely aware but unaware of what's going on around you and unsure if it's reality or just a dream. She groans in her slumber when something heavier rests in her lap, and again when she feels her arms being lifted upwards and pinched.Her eyes flutter open, and Root thinks she's still in suspension when she sees the brown of Shaw's irises so close and fixated upon her.

It finally clicks.

The handcuffs locking around her wrist, and it's then that Root's eyes jolt wide open. It's too late when she struggles against the restraints at both ends of her arms. Root glances to each side, metal binding one hand and what appears to be the belt of a robe tied around to the other, securing her firmly to the headboard. In the middle of this wide awake mess is Shaw, who's straddling Root's waist, with messy wet hair tousled and dripping lines of water down her body.

“Anyone ever tell you you're a heavy sleeper,” she says with a careless calm, like she's not sitting on Root's lap half naked and handcuffing her to the bed.

Still foggy from dozing off earlier, Root's head is in a clouded and confused daze. For a second she thinks she's still dreaming, because there is no way this is happening right now. But it is. Root focuses a bit more, to Shaw hovering over her with those black boy briefs and matching lace bra. A couple of blinks and a few quick tugs on the restraints and...

_Yes, this is absolutely fucking real._

And kinky in a way that mirrors her own lustful appetite, and it also makes her heart miss a beat. Root's never been one to show her cards though. She turns on her usual flirtatious persona, the one that embeds grinning little parasites under Shaw's skin, and sets herself up for whatever match she's just been thrown into.

“I'm not sure,” Root replies with a smirk, “There was never much _sleeping_ involved.” She makes an obvious up and down scan of Shaw's body with her eyes, noting the swelling peaks of perky breasts restricted by an underwired piece of black lingerie. Root always pictured Shaw as a sports bra kind of gal, but the briefs oddly pair well. It's befitting of Shaw's persona, which has always skimmed along the middle of not quite girly, not quite masculine.

It doesn't matter. She's always liked Shaw, nearly to a point it makes her uncontrollably giddy whenever she's around. Now Root can't stop smiling, cheeks painfully cracking in effort to thwart her beams. As if playing along and feigning casualness would ever work for her right now, under Shaw's microscope.

“Speaking of _restless activities_...” she starts to say, but her sentence is cut off along with the circulation of her right hand as Shaw tightens the cuffs. Root barely winces, not at the quick pinch, but the surprise of outer stimuli that draws her back to this immediate situation. The one where she's bound to a headboard in a hotel room by an incredibly hot but extremely deadly woman that may or may not be in a killing mood tonight.

“You're still sore about that?” Root asks rhetorically with a near devilish grin, and Shaw knows she's not referring to the already healed gun shot wound from some odd weeks ago.

“I thought you liked games, since you play them so much.” There's a bit of bite in her tone, vengeful and with a sting similar to how her right wrist feels against the metal cuffs. Shaw's getting at something and Root's head is going in a million different directions trying to figure out what that is.

“If this is how you wanna play, Sameen, all you had to do was ask nicely,” Root defiantly leans forward the little ways that she's able to, searching and searching, but all she's able to fathom is Shaw's luscious lips and how they would absolutely melt her.

“Ever wonder what would happen?” Shaw rests her hands on either side of Root and draws closer. Her face still leaves little to be revealed under that hardened and unfaltering cold gaze. “If you played with the wrong person?” Shaw says lowly, with her mouth only a hot breath away. Root bites her own bottom lip earnestly, holding back what can only be unsettling impatience and secretive amorousness.

“A few scenarios crossed my mind,” Root practically purrs. The spark in her eyes motion to the restraints with liveliness before they meet again with Shaw. With a wide smile she adds, “This was one of them.”

This is perhaps the most honest she's ever been with Shaw. It's true. Root has a vibrant and unhealthy imagination. If Shaw only knew the visions Root conjured in her own head. Heated daydreams of pushing Shaw up against a counter, or a door, or a brick wall, or a book shelf. In the back seat of a car, in a broom closet, on Harold's computer station even. Ripping her clothes off with bare teeth and frantic hands. Root's thought of toys and whips, zip ties and hot irons, but most often good old fashioned ingenuity. Suffice to say, the things she's thought about doing to Shaw would hurt only in the best kind of ways. It would certainly leave lovely marks, scarring grey matter as well as skin.

“Was this?” Shaw raises her brown a fraction. The apparent snap of the switchblade opening beside her good ear makes Root's mouth go dry, like all the moisture her body possess is rerouted with rising demand to another area. Root's not sure how long she can ignore this new and developing ache between her thighs.

“Depends...” Root says coyly, trying to play off her own eagerness, looking only to the lips so deadly close to hers and secretly wishing she could reach them, “On how you intend to use it.”

Shaw just smiles and it's all teeth before she pulls away and leans back. Root can feel the full weight and warmth of Shaw's ass resting in her lap now. As if it were on purpose, the shift in balance sends an exciting rush to the apex of Root's legs. The steel of the blade is cold against Root's skin as Shaw hooks it under her shirt. She fists a wad of the fabric and Root can feel the warmth of Shaw's hands as she drags the knife upward. The tip skims Root's stomach and chest as her shirt is slowly sliced in half. It's like time has stopped altogether and nothing is left but Shaw's dark eyes fixed to her own and the sound woven cotton being ripped apart.

Root sucks in a small breath of air when the blade intently touches her bare skin. It's glided downward from her collarbone, dragging lightly enough to only leave red scratches that make her shiver. Root can feel just how sharp the edge is, reminding her that she's under Shaw's complete mercy in this moment. If Shaw were to press any harder, and Root knows she wants to, there would surely be blood, and the very thought of Shaw inflicting that sort of pain is arousing.

When the knife reaches the middle of her bra, there's a smirk that flashes in the corners of Shaw mouth. With one swipe, she cuts it free and Root gasps a small breath when the blade nicks her skin. Accidentally or on purpose, she's not sure but the sudden sting makes Root ball her fists and jerk against the restraints.

It's superficial, Root thinks, but she cant see past the head that dips below. Shaw's lips are magnificent against her skin, kissing wet trails downward from her collar, flickering like glorious jolts of electricity when they reach the marred flesh. And Root can't help but moan when Shaw's tongue licks and sucks hard upon her skin. Root closes her eyes, letting Shaw's lips freely travel further and further. Her wet hair drips icy cold water in her wake and it's an added shock against the heat from her mouth.

She snaps them open and gasps when Shaw bites her just above the hipbone. It's like Root's been pulled back to reality, the one she shouldn't be enjoying so much.

“Shaw,” Root moans to the damp tendrils of hair that chill her skin. She knows it would kill whatever mood this was, but questions are tugging at Root. Such as, why now? Why like this?

Shaw's teeth are so fierce and brutal though, and Root soon forgets her own hesitations. Speechless as Shaw nips here, bites down hard there, then makes up for their viciousness with her tongue. Soothing the angry skin with velvety wet apologies. The initial pain and the ensuing pleasure is almost unreal, much like this position Root finds herself in.

When Shaw's mouth reaches the hem of Root's jeans, she doesn't wait for approval. Taking the denim between her teeth, she undoes the first clasp with a quick tug. It's repeated painstakingly slow with each following button fly until Root feels fingers tucking into the edges of her pants. Shaw looks at her with those mysterious dark eyes that Root's been searching ever since coming to, and still she finds nothing as her pants are pulled down her long legs. Turned inside out and thrown somewhere on the floor.

Now, nothing but two thin layers of cotton are all that remain between Root's burning center and Shaw's. It's too much, she thinks after Shaw clambers back up to her original position, resting on Root's lap fully this time. The little extra weight feels like a lot, the pressure hot and heavy and pressing directly onto Root's aching cunt. Shaw grinds down and it's sexy in the way her powerful abdominal muscles expand and contract with the movement.

That special attention is short lived. Shaw steadies herself and Root's reminded of the barrier that truly keeps them apart. As if by want or need, some kind of desperation, Root arches her hips upward into Shaw, trying to reach what feels impossible and crying inwardly because it's not enough.

“Is this what you wanted?” Shaw breathes coldly, scraping her nails down the center of Root's chest, hard and with promise to leave marks. Root just hisses a reply. She sees Shaw's eyes flicker away and Root's too curious not to follow. They land upon her own laptop open on the nightstand beside the bed, screen still glowing with those indecent pictures of Shaw.

Root feels guilty for a moment. For keeping them or for getting caught, she's not sure. What she does know is that she's getting sloppy. She's going to need to work on that later, but for now the only thing Root is trying to figure out is Shaw.

There's so many words to say, altruistic or simply cheeky and playful, what Root's most known for. Oddly, none of these words are good enough. They remain stifled in the back of her throat. With a painful swallow, she manages weakly a single sound from her lips, and it's “Sameen”.

That's all Root can or will say because Shaw has other ideas. She reaches towards the nightstand for a purpose that becomes very clear as she stretches out a short piece of duct tape and rips it off. Root doesn't protest when it's pressed over her mouth and sealed firmly into place.

“Is it?” Shaw repeats, and Root can only nod meagerly. Shaw's hand goes to her neck again, rubbing the skin over Root's pulse that's pounding beneath the flesh and giving everything away.

Root could be worried about her racing heart beat thumping against Shaw's palm, or she could be worried about what Shaw was doing with her other hand. Caressing and squeezing her own breast underneath her bra, closing her eyes and silently mouthing at whatever unknown action she's preforming to her nipple. That breathy moan that eventually escapes Shaw's lips does it, sets Root off, as if she wasn't already unraveling.

Shaw's hand travels, as does Root's wanting eyes, lower and lower, until they both meet the waistband of Shaw's briefs. Watching as fingertips tease and play with the hem.

“Do you want to touch me?” Shaw whispers against the tape that confines Root's lips. She watches as Shaw's hand disappears for the fifth time tonight, into her underwear, not that Root's counting. She sighs a laugh through her nose, half expecting a weapon to turn up, but one never does. No, Shaw stays there, wrist deep and slowly stroking, her arm moving up and down, pleasuring herself.

Oh, if Root weren't tied up.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Shaw says with abrasiveness to her words that reverberate loud alarms, instantly gripping the back of Root's head by the hair and pulling her neck to meet eyes. Root says nothing, no nod, no incoherent mumbling through the tape, she only stares into Shaw's eyes burning with some desire that mimics searing hatred.

“I bet you'd like to tie me up like this.” Root feels her hand, moving a little faster than before and perhaps intentionally brushing near Root's clit. Close but not close enough, Root pushes her hips to the movement. Though Shaw must have seen that coming, lifting herself just out of reach. If Shaw weren't holding onto the back of her head so tightly, Root would have slammed it into the headboard purely out of frustration.

“And do whatever you wanted to me...” Shaw's stifling so much, between panting breaths and the push and pull of her fingers woven through Root's hairline. It's amazing how fast she's been able to work herself up. Her once steady, mechanical strokes now turned hard and frantic, desperate even. Closing her eyes and leaning in, she sinks her sharp teeth into Root's chin.

“You'd like to hurt me wouldn't you?” Root's rhythmic heartbeat elevates to pounding drums in her ears. Pulling against her bonds until she can no longer feel her arms because what Shaw is doing with and also without her is more unbearable.

Shaw's close, she can tell by the erratically sharp breaths she pulls in and the shuddering of her body now resting fully onto Root's and grinding uncontrollably. She hears something, right before Shaw bites her ear hard enough to draw blood, something that sounded like a swear or her own name. Root doesn't care, her synapses firing wildly on the verge of short circuiting.

When Shaw finally comes undone with her teeth buried deeply in Root's neck, with a single near silent moan that's as stealthy as she is, with one last lunge of her quaking hips, Root's reduced to pure liquid. Melted and waiting to be molded, ready to be anything for Shaw.

Her eyes are closed when she leans back, neck skyward. It's the most peaceful that Root's ever seen Shaw. Post orgasm and reveling in the remaining waves that ripple throughout her body, beautiful in Root's sore eyes.

It's almost sweet, Root thinks.

Until Shaw bitterly tears away the tape from Root's mouth with one quick swipe.

“Fuck!” Root gasps, turning her head away in the direction of the pull. Glaring in a way that much resembles Shaw's resting face for an instant, before the pain subsides and Root's gathers, back to her own self. The air is pungent with Shaw's aroma, and damn if that doesn't help Root forget her anger. Licking her stinging lips she says, “You're definitely still sore about that.”

“Maybe I am,” Shaw replies with heavy bedroom eyes.

“Untie me Shaw,” Root says, almost writhing underneath, “and I'll make you sore in a better way,” she smiles sultrily. Shaw leans in again, mouth close enough to set fire to Root's already burning lips.

“Is that so?” she whispers, and Root hisses when Shaw takes her bottom lip between her teeth and nips. “You know what I think?” and Root just nods like a helpless idiot. “I think you're all talk,” Shaw smiles as she puts more distance between them. “And you talk too much,” she finishes.

Damn if Root doesn't want to scream when Shaw puts the tape back on her mouth and gets off the bed.

It's over and Root knows it. Shaw's putting her clothes on, taking her sweet time while Root just lies there disheveled and flustered. She should have seen this coming, the karma or the irony, the way Shaw glared at her in the subway weeks ago, like Root had finally brought her to the highest boiling point.

Should she be mad though, for besting at her own game. Root would give Shaw a touche' for her innovations, but oh yeah, she cant speak right now. She just mummers something against the duct tape to get Shaw's attention again.

Shaw's by the door, fully dressed and bag in hand. She turns to Root before she's about to leave, with a look that says she's smothering something that surely must be roaring laughter within. Root rolls her eyes and lands them on the handcuffs that bind her right wrist and then to the rope on the other.

_Aren't you forgetting something?_

“I almost forgot,” Shaw says, striding back to the bed.

Root curses herself for the umpteenth time tonight with many more yet to come. Because Shaw makes no such pass to undo the restraints, instead reaching into the pocket of Root's jacket lying on the armchair and retrieving one of the two train tickets within. Root clears her throat again, gesturing to her tied up situation on the bed. Shaw just picks up the open switchblade at the end of the bed and stabs it into the part of the mattress by Root's side.

“You can let yourself out,” she says frigidly and devoid of emotion, walking away with no trace of remorse. Yet Shaw turns in the distance halfway and winks.

_Such a damn professional._

To give her some credit though, Shaw's much better at it than Root.

But Shaw adds further insult to injury. She swipes Root's pants on her way out and stuffs them into her bag. Before the door closes and Shaw's completely out of sight, Root sees something tossed into the room and onto the floor. The Machine buzzes in her ear what the item reads, but Root already knows that it's the door hanger that says 'Do Not Disturb'.

Root lays silently on the bed, mulling over a few options in her head, like how she's going to monkey that knife with her foot and cut herself free. She's got two hours figure her way out of this vengeful mess, but all she can think about right now is Shaw.

For once, Root's not thinking about ways to fuck Shaw, no, she's thinking of ways she might actually kill her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going back to Shaw's POV for this one, because i had such a fun time with the first chapter writing for her. Enjoy!
> 
> PS!  
> If you have any prompts for future root/shaw shenanigans, don't hesitate to send them my way! I'm always on the look out for new ideas. Thank you for reading!

Shaw's sitting in the dining car when the third and final boarding announcements echo throughout the train station's intercoms.

Alone at her little table, picking at her plate of food, but mostly drinking from a brown bottle that tastes more like water than actually beer. She finishes off the remaining contents in one gulp. On her fourth drink and it's only 7 o'clock in the morning, but Shaw doesn't exactly want to be sober when her companion arrives. Which better be soon; that buzz and Root.

She looks to her watch as the train rumbles to life. Root's always been fashionably late, rushing in at the last moment with that damn smirk on her face that cleverly catches your look of surprise, like she knows you might have just been worrying about her seconds ago.

The train starts to move at glacial pace and there's still no sign of her. Shaw peers out the window and to the platform where tired travelers wait with luggage, searching for a tall brunette woman among the crowd who might be running to catch up. She begins to wonder if she gave Root too much credit, thinking that she'd get out those bonds eventually. Root's no Houdini, but she's got this uncanny knack for finding her way out of... or into anything.

In Root's defense though, Shaw didn't exactly leave her with the easiest knot to accomplish. In fact, she didn't leave Root with much of anything.The very thought of Root scrambling around the hotel half naked makes Shaw smile, only on the inside.

Because Root brought this on herself. Shaw didn't create the mess; she never wanted Root to invade her life. Content with the way her new government free one was working out, Root just had to muck it all up. Had to poke and prod and snake her way in.

Shaw's looking out the window and thinking maybe she should have aimed a little more to the left that one and only time she was allowed to shoot Root, but it's too late for that now. _They are a team_ , of course.

_As soon as this AI apocalypse is over though..._

But for now Shaw's more concerned with the ass chewing she's going to get from Finch when she shows up at home base sans psycho. The questions that will pelt her like softball sized hail, that look she's going to get but ignore when she explains only the hotel and the handcuffs and NOT the other shit that happened, because that's none of Finch's business anyway.

A single worry eventually does spark in Shaw's head, on the verge of creating a wild fire of disastrous scenarios that all conclude to the same ending; Root captured or lying dead somewhere... and it's all Shaw's fault.

For a person that doesn't really care about anything, the thought of that smiling idiot hurt or dying makes all the beer, eggs, and bacon in Shaw's stomach threaten a second appearance.

_Where the hell are you Root?_

“Miss?” Shaw's pulled away from her window gazing and to the waiter standing beside the table. He smiles politely and places a short glass filled with something amber in color next to her plate. He's about to walk away, but Shaw's hand shoots out faster than a bullet and catches his arm.

“I didn't order that,” she practically growls, eyeing him and the people surrounding with suspicion. He's skinny and sheepish, and those glasses make him look like a nerd or a hipster, but appearances can also be deceiving, Shaw's come to learn the hard way. Example A: Veronica Sinclair, Suffolk Hotel.

“Compliments of the lady,” he points out nervously, and Shaw whips her head around. The scoff is as immediate as the secretive downpour of relief when Shaw takes in the sight.

_Fucking Root._

Root does a little wave with her fingers from the mini bar she's leaning casually against, sipping from the straw of her iced coffee like she's been here this entire time. Shaw can't help but smirk when she finally faces forward. Not that she's surprised that Root decided to show up, but the fact that Root's wearing that same stupid dress Shaw had on only hours ago. It's mostly covered by a leather jacket zipped up all the way to her neck, but Shaw knows and feels a certain giddiness within because there is no way that dress fits Root. It barely fit on her.

“Can I have my arm back?” The waiter asks finally, Shaw was too busy with the new distraction and had completely forgot. She lets him go with an insincere and mumbled apology, and the little man practically scampers away.

Shaw can feel Root's slow approach from behind, sauntering with those tall legs down the aisle. Even more so than the stares suddenly shifting to this woman's direction as she walks.

“You're late,” Shaw chastises, when she knows Root's in earshot.

Root somehow strides so confidently past and Shaw catches more than a whiff of her perfume. Where the dress ends and the jacket begins, Shaw can't tell. Root threatens to reveal more than just the pale skin of her thighs. Shaw wonders for a moment if Root wore this on purpose, it's entirely possible.

She takes the seat across the table and pulls the zipper of her jacket down, slowly unveiling like a theater curtain before flapping the sides out more comfortably. Shaw looks at the small red gash in the middle of her chest before Root's piercing eyes.

“Were you worried about me Shaw?” Root teases with a wry smile, resting her chin against her knuckles.

“No.” Shaw shortly confirms. Root only hums a response from her closed lips, her eyes still gathering a search party in Shaw's.

“I didn't spike it, if that's what your wondering,” and Root nods to the new glass on the table.

_I highly doubt that._

In all of her experience, Shaw knows better. It's spy 101 or the first rule of being a woman at a bar. You never drink from something that wasn't sealed or poured yourself or just given to you, especially if it's from Root. That kind of amateur move can get you killed or worse. Dosed out of your mind, and maybe you'll wake up with a splitting headache, wondering why your in the truck of a car or zip tied to a chair. Maybe with a grinning maniac standing over you, twinkling with ideas of revenge.

Shaw just narrows her eyes and Root rolls hers. “Oh for God sake Shaw,” she says, grabbing the glass and taking a sip as if to prove her honesty. The terrible face Root wants to make at the strong and bitter taste confirms. “See?” She winces.

“Nice dress,” Shaw sarcastically scoffs, not to Root but into the contents of the glass that she brings to her lips. And damn if that isn't some of the best scotch she's had in a long time. Still, “But I wore it better.”

Root bites her bottom lip and nods as she glances out the window, to the city flying by past them. “Well,” she muses, “you left me with precious little alternative.”

_Fuck yeah I did._

Shaw's nostalgically squirming with that rush she felt earlier at the hotel. The last time something tickled her like this, she remembers, is when she tickled Root's jaw with her fist in the sewers. That was a long time ago.

“That poor maid though,” Root shakes her head. “Took quite the blow when she fainted.” Root sounds almost sympathetic. Almost. What she's really trying to do is make Shaw feel bad, trying to strike a chord among many more that simply don't exist. Root should know by now that she doesn't care about anything but her job.

“Oh well,” Shaw shrugs her shoulders with indifference. Collateral damage is sometimes necessary for the greater good. And the greater good then was proving a point.

“The Macallan is my way of saying congratulations,” Root answers the question Shaw never intended to ask. As if the top shelf scotch is some shiny trophy bestowed for her victory. At least Root recognizes that, even if Shaw won't.

“For what?” Shaw asks ignorantly, but knowing full well what Root's praising her for.

“Oh Sameen,” Root exasperatedly sighs. “You can play a lot of things with me, but don't play dumb,” she says looking only to Shaw with burrowing eyes. “That grand finale was a nice _touch_.”

_Oh let the double entendres begin._

“I faked it,” Shaw points out, making sure to look at Root directly, control her heart rate and the dilation of her eyes. And for fuck's sake, stop fidgeting with her damn drink.

_I faked it, I faked it, I faked it._

She repeats these thoughts diligently like Root somehow has another annoying ability among all the others. Like Root can read her mind. Like she's some sort of hot human lie detector that knows full well that Shaw kinda got off from tying her up.

The way she raises her brow and folds her arms smugly, that accomplished smirk that hits one corner of her mouth, Shaw knows she's not a two way mirror anymore, that Root sees through her now like crystal clear glass.

“You're a great liar Shaw. It's one of the things I like best about you.”

_Wish I could say i liked anything about you._

“But with me, why do those impeccable skills of deceit fall...”

_Don't you dare say it..._

“Short?” Root punctuates that last bit for her own meanly desired effect.

_4 inches and 10 pounds on me, but I can still drop you in about 0.9 seconds. And I 100% will if you make any more fun size cracks._

“I know acting when I see it, and _that_...” Root chuckles, “was no act.”

“Well it's a good thing I didn't stick around then,” Shaw says, and she's still not ready to give Root the satisfaction of always being right. Polishing off the rest her trophy and setting the glass down, she quips, “Since your performances seem to do nothing but disappoint.” It's a backhanded, double sided blade of a retort, because maybe Shaw didn't work out all of her frustrations earlier, but Root doesn't seem bat a lash over it.

Root just leans in, with her chin resting in one palm, with that flicker of interest sparking in her eyes and that self satisfactory grin Shaw abhors.

“I would never disappoint _you_ Shaw,” she sweetly drips. It's like she's not even trying anymore to mask the subtexts and...

_Where'd your other hand go?_

And Shaw soon feels it, squeezing her knee and traveling up to her thigh. She could simply twist that hand and revel in Root's cries of pain, but no. Finch would have a field day if the analogue interfuck returned with her precious arm slinged and wrapped in a cast.

Shaw does smack it away, and Root does frown, but it brings only microscopic joy. The equivalent of eating turkey bacon; it doesn't suck, but it's not quite as good as the real thing.

“Why couldn't we just drive back? Trains are so slow.” Shaw diverts, and it seems to work because now she can clearly see both of Root's hands. But now they're playing with Shaw's last piece of bacon on her plate.

“After everything you still question Her.” It's probably the only thing in this world that Root will take offense to, other than Shaw denying her obvious passes. “When are you going to trust the machine?” Root asks, waving the strip of bacon at Shaw. She's not sure if she's using it to point, or just to taunt, but still, that's Shaw's food she's playing with.

“When you stop being a pain.” Shaw scowls when Root takes a small bite and tosses it back on the plate. It's ruined now.

“Seems we are at an impasse then.” Root comments and makes a pleasing face as she chews.

_I hope you choke on that._

“Yep.”

“Well Shaw,” Root swallows and clears her throat, “if you _must_ know. We are traveling by rail instead of road because of that blonde gentleman in the windbreaker three seats behind me."

“New number?” Shaw raises her brow and looks past Root's stupid face, to the man stirring his coffee anxiously rather than drinking it.

“No, just a side bonus,” Root sighs like she's bored all of a sudden. “Craig Stevens, forty-two, born in Toronto, raised in Michigan. Engineer who enjoys flying model airplanes in his spare time and actually pays for porn.” And now she's trying to drag Shaw into her pit of boredom.

“Are you ever going to get to the point?” Shaw interjects while impatiently jogging her knee under the table.

“He's going to detonate a bomb on this train.” Root's remark is so casual, as if it were a common everyday sentence.

“Say that louder Root, I don't think the rest of the train heard you.”

“No one's listening Shaw,” Root rolls her eyes, “well, not everyone.” A finger taps her right ear where her cochlear implant lies covered by her brown curls. “People are so self involved, so oblivious of whats going on around them. They fail to see what's clearly in plain sight... right in front of them even.”

No, you make it pretty obvious Root. I just don't buy into your bullshit.

“For example, I could say aloud that you and I are _secret agents_ currently doing the bidding of higher AI being...” Root turns her gaze from the window and to Shaw across the table, giving her this look that Shaw's seen a million times. The one that precedes something utterly risque and tasteless that's about to come out of her mouth. “Or... that I'm not wearing _anything_ under this Armani...”

Shaw saw that coming from a mile away. Root's sometimes too predictable with her advances, and still, this small part of her wants to peak under the table to see if she's... lying.

But Root was wrong about someone not noticing, that creep behind her has been staring ever since she sat down.

“Don't be so sure, looks like you've got a fan,” Shaw nods lightly to the man in the blue suit a couple tables down, but Root doesn't look.

“He's cute,” she says anyway and smiles. Shaw doesn't know what's more irritating... that Root practically has eyes in the back of her head, or that she finds that guy even remotely attractive.

_Great._

“He's coming this way,” Shaw adds and again it's like Root already knows. When he's finally standing at their table, Root gives her a little wink before she switches into another character. She does this when they go undercover. Oddly, Shaw finds her fake identities more annoying than the real Root.

“Hi, I think we passed one another earlier in the station, at the news stand.”

“Yes of course, I remember you,” Root bubbles with affectionate cheer, and it just makes Shaw want to gag.

“Can I get you a drink?” He offers, and Shaw cant control the following _pfft._

_Real original._

The sound escapes her mouth, perhaps louder than she intended, and it grants her a quick glance from the chump standing by the table and a sudden twitch of Root's leg underneath it that sharply kicks her shin.

“I'm Michael, by the way,” he formally greets, extending his lily white banker's hand to Root, and she takes so earnestly that Shaw's stomach actually does start churning.

“I'm-” Root starts to return formalities but Shaw cuts her off.

“Not interested,” Shaw bursts with a scathing tone.

“You'll have to forgive my friend here,” Root apologizes. “Seems she left her manners back at the hotel,” she says, eyeing Shaw at the last word for some kind of emphasis before smiling stupidly back at Michael. “I'm Rebecca, and this is bundle of sunshine is Sam.”

_Why did you have to tell him MY real name!_

“And WE, are leaving,” Shaw hurriedly gets up and grabs Root by the arm, hard enough to leave bruises, but she doesn't care. Shaw's tired of this. There are more important things to be done, and Root hunting for a railroad fuck buddy isn't one of them.

“Right well, it was so nice to meet you. Perhaps we'll _bump_ into each other later,” Root says and it makes Shaw dig her nails in a little harder.

“Are you sure you can't stay for one drink? My treat?” he adds and Shaw's about to roll her eyes again, but Root surprisingly shoots him down.

“No I'm afraid I can't,” Root says, and Shaw's relieved until more words spill from Root's fucking mouth, and right now she's not sure who deserves the punch winding in her arm. “My girlfriend and I are in the middle of something.”

_I am NOT you're God damn girlfriend!_

For a moment Shaw wants so desperately to correct Root, but the blue suit presses on. He must be stupid or deaf. Or both. But one thing's for sure, he's got some sort of death wish that Shaw's willing to make come true.

“Cmon, just one,” he whines, grabbing Root's arm in the process, and that's fucking it.

“Look pal,” Shaw steps forward in front of Root and glares. “I'll put it simple for you, since the word 'no' doesn't seem register in your vocabulary. You're a dog at the wrong tree,” she says coldly, and the man looks as if he's about to cower. “Now bark off!”

He flinches at the last part, but Shaw doesn't care. She's already pushing Root down the aisle and to the end of the car, and trying to ignore the people staring at Root's ass about break free from the dress's cover.

“Wow, Shaw. Do I detect a hint of jealously?” Root coos as she slides open the connecting door, and Shaw's so mad at this point she just shoves her through it, slamming the door behind her.

“If flirting with some guy is top on your list instead of finding a bomb that will derail us all to hell, then I'd say your priorities are pretty fucked up!” Shaw accuses jabbing her finger hard into Root's chest, her anger flaring and starting to spill over the edges. Root's all but effected, smiling in that coy way of hers, mockingly.

“Don't worry sweetie, I haven't forgotten about you,” she sweetly says, taking advantage of the small space that they're in and making herself cozy up against Shaw.

With Root this close and warm, it seems to melt away all the anger raging. It feels too familiar, too soft, too good. These scents that seem to invade and overload Shaw's senses; Root's perfume mixed with the way she naturally smells... Shaw's urged to bury her face into Root's neck, and the sudden desire to do so makes her stomach twist into tight knots.

Root's so close and all of a sudden Shaw can't breathe.

What little part of her brain that is still useful, Shaw commands it to slide the other door open and shove Root through it.

“Move,” Shaw commands, and Root begrudgingly obliges, turning her back and walking onward. Shaw thinks she might have heard a sigh escape from the woman, but then again it could have just been a leak in the door's seal.

They walk in silence all the way to the end of the train, to the locked door marked Authorized Personnel Only, but to them it's not a rule, but rather a suggestion.

“In here,” Root says quietly after she's picked the lock. Shaw follows her inside, into the luggage car. Shaw's warily looking to the hundreds of bags she's going to have to sort through instead of Root, who's standing there moping with this sad look on her face.

She starts off at the first shelf closest to her, reading the labels on each suitcase, and not reading into why Root might be so upset. There's too many... bags not reasons, and Shaw's still searching for the one she wants. To one, and then the next, and the next, until Shaw is throwing bags on the floor angrily because there are just too many for her to find herself and Root's just fucking standing there playing at her nails.

“You know,” Shaw tosses one bag, “this would go a lot faster,” and another, “if you actually helped!” The last suitcase hits the floor by Root's feet and bursts wide open, contents spilling everywhere and Root just sighs up into the ceiling.

“Fourth shelf to your right, second row,” Root says uncaring. Shaw doesn't say thank you as she stomps past Root, shoulder checking her in the process. Eyes scanning across the rows, Root sighs louder this time. “ _From the bottom_. Black Sampsonite.”

Shaw finds it, the rolling case Steven's was stupid enough to label with his own name. She gently removes it from the shelf and carefully sets it on the floor. “This is child's play,” Shaw scoffs upon opening it. Some C4 and a couple primers rigged to a digital clock counting down to twenty-three minutes from now.

“Yes, _it is_ ,” Root says sarcastically, like she's getting at something else. Shaw just puffs the strand of hair from her face and examines all the red and blue connecting wires, finding their function and origin before she pulls the appropriate one and the counting comes to a dead halt. It's safe now to yank all the primers from the explosives, which Shaw most impatiently does while Root continues to burn holes into the back of her head.

“Done,” Shaw says, holding the lonely clay like brick in her hand.

“Good,” Root crosses her arms over her chest, “At least you've managed to finish _something_ today.”

“Root...” Shaw glares a warning, shoving her clenched fist in her pocket before she does something reckless with it.

“Shaw.”

“I'm not doing this with you,” Shaw eventually says, shaking her head, and Root only cocks hers to the side.

“Doing what exactly?” Root asks with feigned ignorance, tightening the arms crossed against her body, peering to Shaw in way that demands an excuse or an explanation that Shaw doesn't feel like saturating the air with.

_You know damn well._

“This,” Shaw replies after much dead silence, and then Root fills the messy room with her own patronizing laughter.

“As usual, you're colorful use of descriptives paint an astounding image,” she says opening the door which they came in from. “Since tantrums aren't the only thing you like to throw, be a dear and toss that out the window... while we're still over the bridge.”

Shaw looks out the window to her right, and sure enough, she's staring from a higher point over a blue watered river. When she turns back, Root's already gone, the door hanging ajar in her wake. And for a moment Shaw wishes the bomb would have just exploded right in her face.

She opens the window and with great force, hurls the brick of C4 away, watching it fall with the wind before it makes a splash in the water. Shaw stands there with the hurried air whipping strands of hair against her cheek, and she breathes, trying to settle the blood boiling in her head. The cold wind of the rushing train brings her down a few degrees and she sighs out the window, hoping it that it will carry and hit the water as well.

Root's nowhere in sight, the long hallways are absent of the tall woman that makes Shaw so angry. She walks and walks, through each empty car hoping and not hoping to catch a glimpse of long pale legs striding at the end.

Shaw finally stops by one cabin door, her peripherals locking onto a room number that she remembers being printed on her ticket. Looking at the latch and then down the corridor that eventually leads back to the dining car, she contemplates getting drunk rather than going inside. She doesn't know why her hand goes to the door marked 7A instead of the one that connects the cars.

Sliding open the door, she finds Root sitting cross legged on the bed with her laptop. Completely unaltered by Shaw's presence, never looking away from the glowing screen, she continues to type away as if she were still the only person in this room. And for some reason, that anger Shaw tossed out the window earlier with the C4 comes back with a vengeance, unexpectedly and overwhelming, and it isn't until Shaw slams the door shut that Root looks up from her seat.

“I'm fucking sick of this shit!” Shaw yells like she hasn't in a long time. It's uncontrolled and unfiltered and it feels good. “These stupid games and you!” she points, and it angers her even more when Root remains unfazed.

“Oh yeah?” Root simply says, placing the laptop gently aside and rising to her feet with a calm grace that Shaw doesn't understand. “What are you going to do about it Shaw?” Root says defiantly. She's smiling as she slowly takes the few brave steps forward, but when she's comes into better focus, that smile isn't like all the other ones she's given Shaw. It's forced and pained, and when Shaw remains adamant in her silence, it fades from Root's face like it was never there.

“That's what I thought.” Something in Root's voice trembles, her eyes glossed with a sadness and Shaw nearly crumbles looking at them. And maybe Root's aware of what little she's revealing, and exchanges it for something else that mirrors Shaw's seething.

“Maybe I will have that drink with Michael,” Root contemplates and narrows her gaze, “he'd probably make for better company.” Her words have a bite behind them, Shaw feels the sting even more than her own nails digging into tightly closed fists. Muscles tense and readily winding, Root notices, and yet, decides to stoke the fire building in Shaw.

“Heck,” Root lowly whispers, as close as Shaw did in the hotel earlier. “He might have a private cabin that's _much_ cozier.” Root adds with a smile of white teeth, brushing past Shaw and motioning for the door to make true on her promises, all the while turning her back to a different kind of explosion. And that just fucking does it.

“Root!” Shaw growls, twisting Root around so fast and slamming her back against the door. There's a loud thud, a crack of splintering wood, and a hiss, but they all were expected.

Shaw only came her to apologize, she thinks, or something like that. Whenever she got done yelling at Root and blaming her.

Root's pinned up against the door frame by a formidable woman who can kill her in seventy-five different ways and that's just with only bare hands, but she still fails to recognize the potential of pain Shaw's about to put her in.

“Does that make you mad Sameen?” Root smiles now, in that way Shaw's too familiar with. “The thought of me fucking someone that isn't you?”

Shaw wants to say yes, just admit to it already and wrap her mouth around Root's neck... but she settles for wrapping her hand around it instead. The movement is too fast, too forceful, and it makes Root's head hit the door. The sound of collision that ensues, the rattling throughout the threshold, that grunt of pain, symphonies to Shaw's ears.

Squeezing the soft skin of Root's neck, the beating pulse struggles beneath Shaw's fingers. The passage of air is all that attempts to resist against Shaw's grip. She feels Root's hand drawn across her forearm extended, black nails clenching though her jacket's fabric and it surprises Shaw when they urge for more, pulling instead of pushing away.

Shaw warmly vibrates with something similar felt before, the heat from the hot iron once held by a woman who wasn't Veronica Sinclair. The effects of that confession Root made a long time ago, Shaw feels them tingling again throughout all her nerve endings and her grip slacks.

And of course Root takes this opportunity to do what she does best. Run her mouth.

“I was just thinking about earlier,” she breathes softly with the air she's regained, her fingers reaching the bare skin of Shaw's hand and caressing with affection. “As fun as that was....” Root leads on, biting her lip and trailing her other hand down the middle of Shaw's chest.

“You left one part out.”

“And what's that?” Shaw asks, like she's taking some sort of bait, tightening her grip on Root's jacket and waiting for that famous hook, that one liner...

When Root fists a wad of her shirt and jerks her even closer, Shaw feels like she's sinking. Pressed to Root, pressed against the door. Her own resistance splintering under all the pressure. And Shaw cant even remember how she's managed to find herself this way, chest tightening under this crushing force that she's created. Root, pulling all the breath from her lungs with that finale inhale, and exhaling words in return that seem to rattle what's left of Shaw's weakened foundation.

Shaw's grasping this woman for dear life like she's about to fall into her own wreckage, and she does when Root finally whispers against her lips. “Ruin me Shaw.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok! cliffhanger, i know, don't hate me. One more chapter i swear!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, i know it's been a while.  
> I must have rewrote this chapter like five times before finally deciding to just stop.  
> But here it is! And i'm totally not sorry.

Shaw's been holding her breath for so long it's unreal. Lightheaded, heart hammering, clutching Root and trying to grasp if she even heard her correctly.

But she did, through the thundering in her ears, through the vibrations of the words formed in Root's throat and expelled in the small distance between their lips.

_Ruin me._

Ruin Root.

Only, Shaw seems to think she herself is the one crumbling. Her ever resilient foundation trembling with the last bit of after shock of words spoken like a dare, ever tempting with eroding qualities. The wall painstakingly built ever since this woman came around, Shaw feels it faltering, feels the rubble falling at her feet.

The damage is irreparable. Shaw sees that now.

When the dust settles, it's just her and Root, standing among this broken and collapsed barrier, surrounded by all these reasons safely chosen to be ignored. In the true light of day, by Shaw's will or otherwise, they're unavoidable, inadmissible.

They're there, occupying the space suddenly free. Wrapped together in this small cabin becoming so stiflingly damn hot, when Shaw finally does breathe, she takes a part of Root with her. The hand that carefully laid each brick, the one around Root's throat, it goes slack almost in the way her speechless jaw does. But it still reaches, searches in those last few moments for retreating sounds. To call this whole thing off before it begins.

Whatever it, _this_ , is.

The words are lost, missing and Shaw's last dangling hope calls off the search. Finally faces this reality parallel to Root's.

Shaw ghosts her lips in the same way she's always ghosted this woman. Close but never touching, loving and dreading the tight knots twisting in the center of it all. The warning signs telling her to leave and in the same turn screaming for her to stay. The moment that Shaw's fathomed a million times but never accepted, it's here. The kind of moment she felt would kill her or slay her with regret later. Something that the Shaw of long ago would regard as so utterly reckless and stupid for even her to accomplish. But the Shaw, the one right here and now so weathered by the what ifs, that Shaw can't bring herself to care for the consequences of the future.

Pressed to Root, pressed to the door, Shaw finally runs out of excuses. Sprints towards the thing she's always ran away from.

If it isn't the most glorious collision when their lips collide. A crash, a sudden impact and a release of energy that's been collecting and laying dormant for too long. A release that never felt so fucking good as Root's lips.

For someone who always knows what's coming next, Root surprisingly fails to see Shaw. Dumbstruck for only a fraction before she's meeting Shaw head on, returning the lightening kiss with the same, and if not, even more vigor. Feeling her own kind of release when she slips her tongue past melted lips, Root moans something so pleasant. The second explosion to incinerate what's left of Shaw's torn wreckage. There's a booming in Shaw's ears, a blasting heat radiating the parts of her body connected to the one desired but never obtained.

It's wild and maybe all the things Shaw thought it would be. Maybe more. The way Root's kissing her, with a desperate kind of intensity, like she thinks this is the one and only time Shaw's ever going to let her have this.

She can feel a kind of greed coming over Root. How she tears and pulls at Shaw's shirt, like she's trying to claw through the cotton and bring them closer. As if they weren't already. Shaw thinks she might break apart midst the mess of frantic hands grabbing hold of anything and everything they can. Oddly, the grappling scene makes Shaw feel like a teenager again. The furious pulling of clothes in such a haphazard sense, with no real intent other than just to be foolhardy.

Shaw comes up for air, draws in a partial breath before diving back in again. Like she would rather suffocate it seems, like Root and her lips are more important for survival than oxygen will ever be. Root has to feel the same way, share this overwhelming need for connection after what seems like an eternity of frustration. Adding to the mixture these ever lingering thoughts, that this is a really bad idea, the outcome is a combustible component. A white hot friction that could easily burst the last barrier of clothing between them into flames.

Holding fast, Shaw to Root to the door. Maybe the wood splintering under all the pressure would make for good kindling, Shaw thinks. If she fucked Root against it.

The last bit of trepidation is dislodged, comes undone with another moan that travels from Root and down to Shaw's core. If Shaw didn't feel it before, she feels it now. This sense of urgency pulsing through every nerve ending, Shaw fingers excitedly twitch with a curiosity, not wanting to go another minute without knowing what the rest of Root feels like.

Shaw absolutely despises the dress Root's wearing. Hated it on herself last night, hates it even more because it's in the way. She bunches and wrinkles the ends, pulls them upward until her eager fingertips fall upon warm skin instead of smooth silk. Heavily, Shaw sighs when she realizes Root wasn't lying earlier, that the confession made in the dining car was completely truthful. What a shame, Shaw thinks, for wanting to rip off the underwear that Root isn't even wearing.

She feels the soft skin of Root's hips and feels something else. The sly smirk forming against her mouth, turning smugly at the edges as if delighted by Shaw's discovery. Shaw just takes the arrogance between her teeth, bites down hard enough until she tastes copper, until that amusing laugh generating within Root becomes a pained hiss instead.

That shudder, that sudden jolt that makes Root arch her hips and grasp Shaw tighter, it's everything and Shaw's mind instantly reels with even greater possibilities. Breaking the skin and drawing another reaction like that, something inside Shaw aches with a dangerous desire. To bury her nails so deeply that they leave behind red crescents, to make ladder like impressions with her teeth starting from Root's neck and ending on her thighs. If Root will moan so wantonly when she hurts her. Secretly, Shaw wants to find out.

She thinks of long lasting marks, red and blue, and thinks of promises to be fulfilled.

But Shaw is swayed from that mindset temporarily, when she finds the pure liquid heat waiting between Root's legs. She grunts something incoherent into the crook of the neck she was once sucking as her fingers slip through the wetness. Root adds to the nonsense, swearing nothings into Shaw's ear when a certain budding spot is touched for the first time. Eventually lolling her head back to slam loudly against the door when Shaw tests a single finger inside.

And God, Root is so wet. Shaw could easily drown in her, in this moment dreamt of so many times it's reduced her brain to liquid. Pulling out slightly, Root's muscles direly clench at the potential loss and Shaw just revels. In Root; in the way her lips part for Shaw's name to be released between needy moans, in the way her body beckons with it's own kind of language.

Shaw poises another digit, ready to fuck Root into powerful orgasms like she's imagined since the beginning of their strange relationship. But she's stopped abruptly as Root's hand acts on it's own volition, catching Shaw by the wrist and holding tightly.

Quickly, she looks to Root, who's lustful eyes beam directly back. Whiskey colored irises swallowed in darkness, deadly and dilated with arousal. Root bites at her broken lip, crooked with a wry smile, and Shaw tenses.

“What happened to foreplay?” Root teases, her other hand disappearing to tease somewhere else underneath Shaw's shirt.

Shaw is lost again, in the kiss Root pulls her into. Unaware until she feels her heavy chest suddenly unrestricted, as her bra is expertly unsnapped by meticulous fingers. The padding is soon replaced with Root's palm, teasing even more with gentle fondness.

“Where's the rush Shaw?” Root whispers against her lips, bringing Shaw back to where she wants her, to her clit heatedly throbbing between her legs. Shaw sighs and strokes, and maybe examines the question too much in depth when she kisses Root again.

_Where is the rush?_

Is it in her brain? In the synapses firing lust wildly between neurons, overloaded and short circuiting with every touch. Is it in the air she breathes? Root invading her lungs with each inhale, Root absorbed into her bloodstream and pumped throughout her body by a heart that beats at an unholy speed. Is it in her nerves, the endings hard wired and rerouted, connected to her own aching need and her fingertips ready too find Root's. Yes and no, Shaw thinks.

The rush is everywhere.

Shaw presses harder, deepens the kiss until Root breaks off for air, stills Shaw's hand growing with tension. “Don't you want to enjoy this?” She hears Root say, almost chastising, cupping the swell of Shaw's breast.

Whoever said Shaw wasn't enjoying herself? Yes, this is a bit slower than she cared for... more intimate. Maybe so.

Nose to nose, Shaw can see Root's cheeks lifting like she's smiling again. Teasing one of Shaw's nipples with a thumb, Root hums so affectionately into her space. But Shaw would rather hear other sounds from Root. Would rather Root gasp for air and tax her lungs, speed her heart. She'd rather their bodies be a disastrous and tangled blur than resemble anything close to this stillness threatening to stagnate.

Her muscles stiffen and tense. They plead for action, for a speed that burns them into soreness. This slowness, it's not what she wants, and judging by this look on Root's face it's definitely not what she wants either. Root's riding on the brakes, for what reason, Shaw has a theory but chooses to ignore it for now.

She winds, readies like a spring before Root and her meager grip, adamantly for a connection that wills Shaw by name. The sudden sharp pain originating from her nipple makes Shaw freeze. Her half lidded eyes snap open only to find Root sporting a malicious smirk.

“Now, now Shaw,” Root tuts while her fingers remain like a vice around Shaw's sensitivity. And Shaw now realizes her own theory, the one where Root's still fucking with her.

Forty-three muscles to seventeen; a frown combats a smile.

A hand instinctively goes to the source of pain, when Root's grip takes a turn for the more volatile. She squeezes harder, holding fast and Shaw actually believes Root's trying to twist her nipple right the hell off.

“Root!” Shaw growls through the displeasure.

“Do you need a safe word sweetie,” Root teases to the whites of Shaw's teeth showing a grimace, gritting with fury under the acute pressure.

Pain, Shaw can do, better than most. It's not the pain unraveling her stoicism at the moment. It's Root and this smug look plastered to her face. It's Root and her incessant need to manipulate everything. It's Root and it always will be. And just like Shaw had warned earlier, she's fucking sick of it.

But there's one thing Root will never have the upper hand with; speed and strength. Shaw's too fast. A few well placed maneuvers and Root finds herself eating the door with an arm pinned behind her back.

“How's this for foreplay,” Shaw lowly says into the ear than can actually hear her taunt and gives Root another good shove.

Root's head is turned enough to the side to peripherally see. Silent at first, perhaps she's mulling over a few things. Shaw thinks maybe Root will realize the world of hurt she's about to be in and finally grasp that Shaw isn't a play thing. But go figure, Root just smiles.

“It's a cute start,” she says and Shaw just twists her arm from mild discomfort to agony.

“How cute will it be when I break your arm?” Shaw threatens with another short turn and Root hisses.

Out of pain, Root slams her free hand against the wall and clutches the threshold. Fighting back a grimace, she says, “It's okay,” and showingly drums her fingers on the wooden surface. “I've got another.”

Shaw will break that one too if she has to.

“But you don't wanna to do that, do you Shaw?”

It's still under consideration.

“Because, you know,” Root leads on, slowly dragging her polished black nails against the surface. Shaw watches them like she's transfixed by the sight and sound. “I can do _so.. much.. more._.with both,” Root whispers, punctuates her scratching. Shaw looks to the deep lines revealed in the wood and barely manages to swallow.

“This is all just so amusing to you isn't it,” Shaw shakes her head, tries to shake away distracting thoughts. “Using me for your fucked up little games?”

Root doesn't answer at first. She looks up to the place where her hand lies among the marks in the door, then down at nothing. Shaw swears she could hear her name at the beginning of a sentence that Root never finishes. Her name sounding like an apology quickly taken back, exchanged for a smile as half hearted as the remorse would have ever been.

Root just says, “Pick a number between one and ten.”

“What?” Is all that Shaw can manage. Confused and thrown off course. Shouldn't she know better by now?

“Might as well make it one,” Root says, “A game. Since that's what you think this is.”

And to be honest, Shaw has no idea what this is, if it's real or a ruse. With Root, it's a toss of a coin, sometimes interchanged for a double sided one at that. Shaw searches for the sleight of hand and comes up short. She thinks of the number five and releases Root altogether, cursing herself while taking an appropriate amount of steps backwards. Still, Shaw's deciding whether or not she wants to play along.

Even with the new freedom, Root doesn't turn around, doesn't look at Shaw. She stands there facing the door and rolls her hurt shoulder gently a few times. “You got it?” Root eventually asks, shrugging off the jacket and perhaps the only piece of clothing keeping her modest. That damned dress, disheveled and pulled up over her hips, revealing all of Root's perfect ass for Shaw to see.

The sound of Shaw's coat tossed to the floor suffices as an answer and Root begins to undo the zipper at her side.

“Good. Now Sameen,” Root begins, begins to slowly pull the shoulder straps aside. “That number you thought of...”

Shaw repeats it over and over in her head like it could be easily forgotten, distracted more by the gradual descent of Root's dress. Caring less of Root's intentions with every inch of black silk that slips away.

“I want to see...” The garment pools to the floor leaving Root's backside completely bare. Exposed, her pale skin reminds Shaw of winter. Light and cool, even though Shaw feels as if her own flesh were burning underneath her clothes.

Root turns her head slightly. Her profile is seen past the dark waves of her hair, a gaze fixed to the door and the hand tracing the shell of it's lock. Root absently toys with the lever as if still wondering before her fingers pause.

The effect of the words finally reached, it's a dropping sensation in Shaw's chest. Her stone heart skipping radically against the surface before plunging.

“..If you can make me come that many times in a row before I pass out.”

The lock sharply turned and slammed into place, it makes Shaw twist.

“This is our first time,” Root says, baring her body and a devilish grin to Shaw, who's trying her best to suppress this involuntary gulp. “Make it count.”

 

The idea of distance is soon forgotten, by Shaw or Root, neither are sure. They come together in a mess of tangled limbs and lips, mauling tongues and self deprecating sounds slipping away from their mouths.

Shaw's sure she doesn't have clothes on anymore, when her once heated skin suddenly feels so searing pressed to Root. Root, who feels all too pleased with her accomplishments. Shaw just angrily pushes her down on the small bed in the far corner and Root grins as she hits the mattress. Her long legs dangle over the edge, spread invitingly for Shaw to stand between them.

When it comes to Shaw, it's always been difficult for Root to keep her hands to herself, but Shaw lets her this time. Lets Root run her palms along the area of her thighs, over the bumps of her hip bones to her taut stomach. Everywhere but the place in Shaw that's gone untouched this entire time. Now it aches with a need impossible to ignore.

Root soaks in every inch, licking her lips with an insatiable hunger like she wants to absolutely devour everything Shaw is.

Shaw wonders why Root hasn't done so yet.

Fingers weave through the long tendrils of Root's hair before they form a fist, before they pull, and Root's impish grin becomes buried between Shaw's legs. Root kisses her sweetly and hums something satisfactory as she slips her tongue within the folds. Under Root's heated mouth, Shaw flutters, lets out this unbridled sigh and wonders.

Wonders why in the world she never let her before.

Root is relentless. Licking and sucking, and Shaw's acutely aware of every one of those velvety hot strokes and how it drives her further into madness. They pull at each other. Shaw's fist in Root's hair, and Root's hands wrapped tightly around Shaw as her legs begin to tremble.

The first sign of Shaw's release nearing and Root sees it in the distance. She grips Shaw's backside, draws her closer and builds with more adamant flicks of her tongue. For a moment, Shaw thinks about letting go. She arches her hips and muses how good it would feel, how fucking hot it would be to come in Root's mouth.

But something else takes her focus away. A sudden pinch of pain, Root's hand massaging the still tender tissue of one her ass cheeks. The residual nostalgic sting reminds Shaw of everything.

The station, the gun shot wound, and Dr. Fucking Root.

Shaw pulls away just before tumbling over the edge, growling with the harsh disconnect along with Root. Root, who exasperatedly looks to Shaw, searching for some sort of explanation. An answer is given by way of muted lips. Shaw kisses her heatedly but briefly, tasting herself on Root for only an instant before parting ways.

“Turn around and lie down,” Shaw orders, her face expressionless, but Root still smirks.

“Whatever you say,” she replies like she can hardly contain, heading the command without further hesitation and slinking the length of her body across the bed. Shaw climbs over Root's lithe form, flushes herself against Root's back, and tries so hard not to sink so easily into the warmth writhing underneath.

“This doesn't mean anything Root,” Shaw tells her, tells herself.

“Okay sweetie,” Root sighs as Shaw sucks her earlobe. “If that makes you feel better,” she adds and hisses immediately when Shaw bites.

“I don't like you,” Shaw warns, drags her teeth along the crook of Root's neck and down to her shoulder. She feels Root's spine shiver against her chest, when she sincerely bites in between soft kisses.

“Not even a little?” Root half asks. Half already knows the answer. Obviously Shaw likes her to a degree, or else she wouldn't be here right now, working her mouth down Root's bare back.

“No,” Shaw lies, and it's like Root can feel the dishonesty whispered to the small of her back.

“Well I like you Shaw,” she says anyway. “Ever since-”

By a particularly harsh bite to the back of her thigh, Root's speech is cut short, cut off by Shaw's teeth and smoothed over with her tongue. Shaw already knows what Root's going to say. Ever since the Suffolk Hotel and the iron incident.

If Shaw were to be perfectly honest with herself, which is sometimes difficult, she often thinks about all the unfinished business left lingering that day. What could have happened. Hell, Shaw can't even press her clothes anymore without getting hot and bothered.

“I wanted to kill you then,” Shaw admits truthfully. She settles herself to kneel between Root's legs spread open and vulnerable.

“I know,” Root quietly says back and Shaw looks up. Her eyes trail a path along the perfect curves of Root's body propped on elbows, to soft hair draping over her shoulders. And for once, Shaw wishes she could see her face.

But instead, the first memory of Root flashes in her mind again and the day this unhealthy obsession began to blossom. Now it tangles like overgrown weeds.

“I still do sometimes,” Shaw says, brings her hands to knead the soft flesh of Root's ass. She leans in then, places a kiss to one cheek and whispers against the skin. “Mostly, I just wanna hurt you.” And Shaw feels like she's asking for some sort of permission. She stays there for a moment and waits, until she feels Root shifting above. Shaw looks up again and finds Root staring back with an all serious in her eyes.

“Then hurt me Shaw,” she says. “Please,” and Root rolls her hips backwards to press on. “I want you to.”

Shaw nips the inside of a thigh closest to this woman's burning heat, and Root bucks a little from the near contact. She can smell her, this heady scent that makes Shaw's mouth water terribly. Even more so when she fully takes in the sight of Root at this angle splayed so vulnerably. Shaw simply cannot help herself anymore. Can't help but drag her tongue up the slit of Root's cunt and finally taste the woman that's riddled her thoughts for so long.

Root tastes... too good. Better than anything Shaw's ever had, and she hates how easily she could be addicted to this.

This thing, Shaw still doesn't even know what it is. But she knows damn well how it all started, the person who drove her into madness and wildfires.

Root.

Shaw takes her insanity out on one of Root's pristine cheeks, pulling the soft flesh between her teeth and sinking in. It's the most narcotic whine that floods this small room, but Shaw doesn't stop until she's sure that skin is broken and blood is drawn.

Leaning back, Shaw takes a moment to admire the new mark, the first one probably among many. She rubs the sore spot, squeezes it, and Root gasps, lets out a muffled moan through her palms. Even still, she pushes back into this surely painful touch and it makes Shaw wonder. If she's finally found someone who enjoys this just as much as she does.

The slap she gives to Root's other cheek, isn't light or comical. It's hard. As hard as the one Root had given her weeks ago, but devoid of anything remotely playful. The loud crack breaks the sound barrier, bounces back from every wall and echoes exquisitely in Shaw's ears. But Root, she doesn't so much as make a sound.

So Shaw hits her again, with more feeling that stings her hand. But Root, she just twitches and remains silent save for this small grunt that escapes. “Is that all you got?” Shaw hears her say while winding back for a third.

Switching tactics and switching hands, Shaw finds something like the anger she thinks she needs. Taking that energy, she draws her arm back as far as it will go and aims for the opposite side, where the red and bruising bite mark lies.

That hand is as fast as lightening when Shaw brings it down, hard enough to burn her palm and clap a thunderous sound. It's then that Shaw gets what she wants, when Root tenses before she lets out this long and unrestrained cry. It makes something inside Shaw buzz with pleasure.

Steadily, she slaps Root. Letting her hand linger on the welted skin long enough to hear another unadulterated moan erupt from Root's throat before striking again. She hits the same spot, over and over, with an equal and if not, an even greater force that further raises the angry redness. Only stopping when the belting palm she draws back is smeared with blood.

Root lies almost limp, panting for air. Shaw looks to her near mutilated flesh and wonders for a moment if she got a little too carried away. But Root is indeed enjoying herself, Shaw finds out. Her arousal abundantly shows, it drips in streams down the sides of her thighs.

Simultaneously, Shaw trades the motions of one hand to another. She thrusts two fingers into Root fast and hard, and it's a new sound that christens Shaw's ears. An _oh_ , and a _fuck_ , and her own name released in a roar and Root instantly comes hard.

“One,” Shaw says to herself. Gripping the side of a hip, she pushes in again and builds for a 2nd. It takes only a minute, sixty seconds of Root grunting and fisting the sheets between every one of Shaw's unforgivable thrusts before she comes harder than the first time. Muscle walls tighten around her relentless fingers and Root shudders an earthquake beneath her.

But Shaw doesn't stop there. Root's barely rode out the second orgasm when Shaw adds another finger and slams all three into her.

God, Root is loud. Moaning a length of rowdy curses that the mattress does little to muffle. Shaw will have to gag her next time. _Next time_? Shaw wasn't even sure there would be a next time, that was, until Root arched her back and pushed her hips to sink Shaw's fingers in deeper than they already were. All while telling Shaw to fuck her harder.

Shaw grits her teeth from the soreness in her wrist, but determined as ever through the muscles straining and burning. In her entire arm, between her legs. Her body aches with it's own restless and rising demands. This last orgasm takes longer, takes everything, and it's totally worth it. Watching Root come with an overwhelming force and crumple uselessly on the bed.

The third climax may have done the trick, Shaw thinks, but only for a millisecond.

“You're not done yet,” Root groans almost inaudibly. When Shaw flips her over she sees that infamous grin of Root's coupled with bedroom eyes glossed with lust. And Shaw may or may not be impressed at this point, but she straddles Root's hips anyway and kisses her again, winds her up for that second wind.

It's something reminiscent of the hotel earlier, only Root's hands aren't bound and nothing is separating their bodies. Shaw could have taken what she'd wanted then, this something Root's been graciously offering ever since they met. In the back of her mind, Shaw feels like a fool for denying this inevitability for so long. Like speaking against the sun and fighting fate it seems.

Root is as restless as she was before, running her hands over the length of skin on Shaw's thighs with an eagerness. She pushes her hips upwards, grinding against the ache at the core of Shaw, who feels the beginnings of waves rolling within. The forgotten arousal suddenly reawakened.

Shaw puts all of her weight down in Root's lap, searching for a connection she won't know until she finds it. The throbbing need between her legs, it beckons wildly with ever increasing demand, wanting to feel more of Root, and maybe all of her.

It's an idea that flashes and flickers. Shaw slips a hand between them and parts Root while spreading herself wider. Eventually, Shaw finds what she was searching for and presses herself down as to never lose it.

Leaning back, Shaw watches as Root's eyes flutter and drift off into the back of her head. And Shaw could easily do the same, with the sweetest of warmths connected in the best of ways. The friction alone may be the hottest thing Shaw's ever felt, grinding her clit against Roots. It's unreal.

Root reaches out and takes a firm hold of Shaw's hips, grasps and arches into each steam roll, further adding to the stress. Shaw builds and builds to a faster pace letting her core muscles do all the work. She closes her eyes and begins to really lose herself.

“Sam.”

Shaw hears the whimper and looks down to find Root on the edge of what seems like torture. She writhes underneath Shaw, bucking her hips with every movement as if she's dying for something more.

“I need you t-” But the end of that sentence is just a lecherous moan, when Shaw reaches around and uses Root's thighs as anchors. Presses herself even harder against the wetness between them.

“What do you need?” Shaw asks even though she too is having trouble forming words at this point. Root parts her lips to speak again and Shaw feels evil, purposefully amping the speed of her hips to render Root speechless.

In between the stimulating feelings, Shaw thinks it's pretty funny. The way Root seems to be going mad, clawing her nails in frustration from being stuck in this purgatory medium between foreplay and coming. Shaw thinks she might come just from riding Root to a breaking point.

Shaw knows what Root wants and thinks about being so cruel, thinks about making Root say please first but decides against it. From behind her back, she trails her a hand up Root's thigh, towards their sexes moving in unison. Taking only a moment to gather wetness before driving two fingers home.

A small regret resides in Shaw, wishing she could have watched Root's face while fucking her the first time. Though the angle is awkward, somehow Shaw manages. She pumps her fingers into Root, hard and steadily to the rhythm of her hips. Suppressing the fire that burns in her chest only to better hear these ethereal sounds Root releases as she comes closer. Saving herself until she feels Root tumbling over the edge. It's unlike the first three times, Shaw thinks as she tumbles too, giving one last good thrust before she's a shuddering mess atop of Root.

Shaw rests her head on Root's chest, listening to sounds of her speed heart fluttering underneath. The sudden slow rise and fall makes Shaw look up. Sure enough, Root's out like a light. Shaw smirks, thinking she'd never actually fuck Root senseless.

The train's whistles blows loudly as Shaw goes to rouse Root. That's when all the lights really do go out. They must be passing through a tunnel, Shaw thinks as the car rumbles roughly on the tracks.

In the darkness, something roughly rattles Shaw. She falls off the bed and onto the floor with the wind knocked out of her. Landing with an _oof!_ and a heaviness on her chest, she feels icicles around her wrists and the familiar _click click_ above her head makes her uneasy.

When the train reaches the end of the tunnel, the daylight shining through the window brings Root into view. Straddling Shaw's waist, she cleverly smiles while putting the final touches on the handcuffs shackling Shaw to the bed's leg. It's bolted to the floor, as Shaw soon discovers.

“Just returning the hardware Shaw,” Root says as she finishes.

More like returning the favor Shaw thinks, testing the cuffs for any sort of weakness and realizing there are none.

“Was four your number?” Root asks, cocking her head playfully to the side.

“No,” Shaw huffs with annoyance.

“Darn,” Root sighs with feigned disappointment, bracketing her arms on either side of Shaw's head and leaning in. “Maybe next time then.” and Shaw scoffs.

“You know I can get out of this right?” Root just cups the side of Shaw's face, like she's said something so utterly cute and adorable.

“Of course you can,” Root says in a tone skirting the edges of patronizing. “But for the next three hours, let's pretend you can't.”

_Three hours?_ Shaw narrows her gaze at the daunting amount of time. She gives the cuffs another futile tug before she supposes, thinking that maybe she deserves the next one hundred and seventy-nine minutes of whatever Root has in store.

And Shaw also supposes she might actually like it.

“Root,” Shaw sighs and rolls her eyes.

“Yes?”

 

“I want my knife back,” Shaw says and Root's eyes light up just as they did all that time ago. She smiles from ear to ear as if she can hardly contain her excitement, reaching for something beyond and away from Shaw's line of view. Knowing perfectly well what that sharp snapping sound is above her head, Shaw swallows hard and Root smiles.

 

“I'm so glad you said that.”


End file.
